


points

by KIBITZER



Category: RWBY
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KIBITZER/pseuds/KIBITZER
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back-and-forth musings about the one they love. drabble af</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Constellation Points

i. Every time you meet, she squares her shoulders and steels her spine and you can never know what she is bracing herself for. You reason that it must be something dangerous, no, lethal, if someone like her is intimidated by it.

ii. The first time she takes your name into her mouth and pensively tastes each syllable, you may as well surrender.

iii. You don’t see her very often. Every time you do, it feels both eternal and all too brief.

iv. She saved your life once, when you were careless and stupidly brave. She keeps saving your life to this day, by sternly reminding you to breathe when you get flustered. She seems unaware that she is always the one who makes you hold your breath in the first place.

v. There is something predatory and feline about her; the way she holds herself, always carefully poised for action at a moment’s notice, and the way her clear eyes constantly dart around searching for threat – or prey.

vi. You aren’t sure what ruined camping trips for her, but you can theorize.

vii. She is elegant cloth draped in beautiful folds around a solid granite block. She doesn’t soften herself for you, not for anyone. But you like that about her.

viii. Her skin is marred with scars from damages even Aura could not protect her from, and one by one, you are allowed to see the ones on her hands, her arms, her shoulders. A long white line slices her left palm in two; she says it’s because she once caught a gunfire-propelled blade with her bare hands, and you are not sure if she is joking.

ix. In fact, you are usually not sure whether she’s joking when she talks about herself. She has a certain wry tone that always confuses you, and makes you unsure if it would be rude to laugh.

x. She laughs a lot more when she drinks. The same thing can be said about crying.

xi. One morning you wake up, but refuse to open your eyes for a long time. _No_ way, you think. You can feel her hair brush against you when she leans over you and asks to borrow your shower.

xii. You memorize the scars you had not seen before – the ones that cross her chest, back, abdomen and legs. Lines from A to B, like constellations, witnesses to her legacy and history. She has never gone to any effort to make her scars smaller or less noticeable. You would assume it was out of pride if she didn’t look so rueful.

xiii. You know she has done bad things.

xiv. She introduces you to someone as her _partner_. Your heart seems to stop in shock, but you feel warm and at home with it.

xv. Much later than you should have, you realize that you perform the exact same squaring and steeling as her - whenever you step out of the recording studio and meet your coworkers again face-to-face. It makes you nervous, vulnerable, and you steel yourself against them in hope of convincing them otherwise.

xvi. She is clean, and faintly perfumed as well. Still, when you get as close as possible and hide your face in the crooks and angles of her body, you can always smell the slightly sour twinge of Dust and gunpowder and blood. You have never been concerned with what you might smell like before. You consider asking her to describe whatever it is you smell like, but you are not sure you want to know.

xvii. You ask her anyway, and she says you smell like coffee and paper and electricity. While she answers, she buries her face in your neck. The tip of her nose is cold. It usually is.

xviii. She is taller and wider than you. She is strong, physically; if she wanted to, she could probably bench press you one-handed. Even though you are shorter, thinner, lighter, and weaker, she seems to find some form of security in your presence. Sometimes, you are the big spoon.

xix. You cannot convince her that you are as boring as you think you are. She cannot convince you that she is as intolerable as she thinks she is.

xx. You could not tell when you first met, but she was – and still is – a damaged battleship taking in water. And, she says quietly one evening, you are the one who wades waist-deep into the murky water with a bucket in your hands, even though you do not know if rescue is even possible.


	2. Convergence Points

_i._ You are damaged and going under, but they make it better.

_ii_. You have always been clever, but they are the voice of reason.

_iii_. They look petite, even weak, but you know better. The gold in their eyes hides an iron will; steel plates and rebar bundled with satin and velvet. Sheets of cool lavender cushion sharp edges, but fail to destroy them. They are soft and kind, but you will never mistake that for weakness.

_iv_. They burn hot with willpower and run cold with anxiety.

_v_. They stay up late and don’t sleep in. It’s nice to have company; you don’t sleep a lot, either.

_vi_. You catch yourself wondering which of you leads the most dangerous life, in the end.

_vii_. You had forgotten that not everyone has the rough, battle-worn body and skin of a warrior. You are mesmerized by just how far you can run your fingers along their skin without brushing a single line or dent.

_viii_. They are a reporter, a journalist, an investigator. Society accepts them as a truth-teller. More than once, they level their eyes with yours and tell you that truth is subjective.

_ix_. They publish an interview they did with you, and you consider being disappointed when the article neglects to mention how the two of you were in the bath for half of it. You suppose, however, that the general public cares more about your opinions on the tension between the kingdoms than what type of conditioner you use.

_x._ You are fine with the world not knowing that about you two.

_xi_. You underestimated them at first. You saved their life because it was your job, and they were an idiot. You underestimated their tenacity, their patience, their devotion.

_xii_. You are a teacher, but you feel that you learn more than you teach when you are with them.

_xiii_. You watch TV more often now. It is always the same channel.

_xiv_. They clutch tightly to you as you demonstrate a perfectly executed landing strategy. They look alarmed, but their laughter is not panicked.

_xv_. You feel weird when you think about how much of your trust you place on their shoulders. You would entrust them with anything; even your life.

_xvi_. You let them touch every white line that mars your body. It was surprisingly difficult for you, but you do not regret it.

_xvii_. You thought you were clever until you talked to them. They are quiet, but they notice things, and they know the intricacies of human behavior like a checklist. You are a star-struck fool at a loss for words.

_xviii_. They write more than they let you read. You suppose that is how artists are.

_xix_. A lot of the time, they are quiet and thoughtful. You are fine with that. Silence is not the enemy; not on its own.

_xx_. You burn your name into bodies and ships, so the world will know you exist. They burn their name into pages, books, and minds. The result is the same.

 


End file.
